


Taking Ten Steps Home

by Murf1307



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Car Sex, Impala Sex, Leviathans - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-11
Updated: 2012-05-11
Packaged: 2017-11-05 04:53:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/402636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Murf1307/pseuds/Murf1307
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel swore he'd find a way to redeem himself to Dean.  This is how the story goes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Step One

**Author's Note:**

> This was for the Angelic Big Bang over on LJ, and was first posted...uh...in January, I think?

They don’t kill him, even as he hears them tell Dean that they have. He is trapped, bolted down in the depths of the vessel,  
close to where Jimmy Novak sleeps and dreams of Heaven.

He hears them lie to Dean, and everything in him is screaming to tell him they’re lying.

They are laughing when all that comes out into their midst – it doesn’t even make it out of the vessel – is a whimper. They laugh at him and tear at his Grace, shredding it seemingly for no other reason than that they are capable of it. It is more painful than being burned to ash by Raphael, more painful than what these Leviathans had done while he had still been in control of his vessel.

He does not scream, does not thrash his spirit about. This is part of penance, he is sure, and if anyone must pay penance it is he.

Instead of screaming, he envisions the screams of the people he killed in his hubris, the fear in bystanders displayed when he revealed himself to them. He is not God, he never was, but that is what they saw him as. He has become a false God, he has done what even Lucifer never could.

That makes him ill as he floats in the sea of Leviathans who mock him.

 _Little angel, how soft you are, without the other souls to separate us, how soft and fragile and corrupt you are_. He refuses to respond; he does not need to, for they continue: _It was the boy, wasn’t it, with his pretty green eyes and his incorruptible pure pureness. We know, little angel, we saw him through your eyes when he helped you, when you said you were sorry. We know how you felt_.

They twist intangible fingers into his Grace, yanking and pulling, and it takes everything Castiel has remaining to him not to shatter apart like so much glass.

Instead, he reaches for the vessel’s senses, and finds that they are lurching toward a municipal water supply.

The Leviathans are still laughing. _We are going to have the world. We will all get pretty vessels like this, and we will have the world and eat and eat and eat. The humans taste so good, so much better than angel-spirit-flesh. We will have everything, and we will have it because you gave it to us, little angel._

If Castiel had eyes, he would be crying, but they have his vessel, carrying it ever closer to the water.

 _Angel_ , one of the Leviathans whispers, leaning into him, threading tendrils through the tears and holes in his Grace, _The boy with the green eyes is following us. We think we will kill him last. Long after others. We like the way you looked at him. We think he will taste so very good, won’t he?_

The others agree: _Yes he will be good to tear apart, with sweet little human flesh, so sweet, so very very sweet. We will enjoy him best, we know it._

Castiel wrenches himself away from the spirit-slime of their touch as they crowd him, digging into his Grace as they reach water. They wade out into it, deeper and deeper. They have no concept of death, not beyond causing it, and they cannot understand what they are doing to this vessel.

When they are all the way submerged, Castiel feels them let go of him with parting slashes, and they rush from his vessel, leaving him alone with Jimmy inside it.

It takes him too long to tear his way back up to the front of the vessel’s brain, to take back control. He slams back into place, only to find himself drowning. He feels Jimmy stir, but begs him to stay asleep as he thrashes, reaches for the surface. He is tangled in his trench coat, and cannot rend himself free of the garment.

The wounds to his Grace tax him as his vessel’s lungs fill with water. He becomes desperate, twisting harder and faster. He does not know where the bottom of the water is, nor where the surface is.

Finally, one of his legs hits air, but he cannot right himself. He is stuck, trapped, weighted down, and he cannot breathe and is rapidly losing the energy to move. He has completely forgotten he does not know how to swim, that he has never had to swim, that this hardly even counts as swimming.

All there is is thrashing and pain and gasping. Water has filled his lungs; he chokes on it, his vessel taking over – it knows better than he ever will what it needs.

But the energy for that is honestly gone. He feels his body begin to slow, his limbs beginning to turn to lead, and he is still choking. The vessel is shutting down; it cannot get what it needs to continue.

Castiel can hear the laughter of the Leviathans echoing as they disperse into the water.

He almost gives himself up to death, but he remembers, as his lungs are fit to burst, that Dean is on the shore of this lake. Dean is there, and he has sworn that he will redeem himself to him, sworn that he would make it right, even when he knows how close to impossible that will be.

He realizes that he cannot die, now. He has given of himself for Dean before, given his life so many times so willingly, that now he has the duty to live for him as he has died for him.

He feels one last jolt of energy, culled from his Grace in its tatters, and he tears for the surface, feeling the air hit his face like sunlight, or the light of God. It is beautiful and searing and painful. He pushes up, tries to float. He finds the sleeves of his trench coat and manages to shuck it off.

Finally he can breathe.

But his limbs are still leaden with weariness, and he feels darkness on the edges of his consciousness. So he opens his eyes, blinks the water from them, and searches the shores for Dean.

When he finds him, he begins to swim, thrashing against the water with hardly any more dignity than when he was drowning. But he is swimming, after a fashion, and he is reaching for Dean with every stroke.

He loses consciousness when he can see the wrinkles in Dean’s t-shirt and the look of fear in his eyes.

It’s all right, because he’s going home.


	2. Step Two

He wakes slowly, feeling heavy. As the world begins to come within the edges of his senses, he hears Dean’s voice: “Sammy, I – I’m goin’ out. Be careful.”

He opens his eyes to find himself on Bobby’s couch, with Sam in a kitchen chair next to him. He manages a glimpse of Dean departing, and is sure he sees anxiety in the lines of his body, and he certainly heard it in the tenor of his voice.

“Cas?” Sam says, quickly, as Castiel struggles to look out the window. “You’re awake.”

“Apparently,” Castiel bites out, frustrated that he cannot even properly sit up. He lets Sam gently tug him back down to a horizontal position on the couch.

Sam bites the inside of his cheek. “How are you?”

“In pain. Exhausted.” It is true. He hasn’t felt this tired and injured in a long time, not bone deep. “Like I might have just destroyed humanity.”

“Uh, about that,” Sam mutters. “We’re still trying to figure that out.”

Castiel closes his eyes, feeling the wave of shame flood over him. “How many?”

“We don’t know.”

Castiel wonders for a moment how it has gotten to the point where he need not even finish sentences for either Winchester to understand. He looks back at Sam, who is quiet. Something has come over his face, a light wash of something similar to fear.

“What’s wrong?”

“I…” Sam lets out a slow breath. “Cas, I think I’m losing my mind.”

Castiel tries again to sit up, and this time it works. He still leans back in the couch cushions as he turns the information over in his mind. “I’m sorry,” he finally manages.

Sam’s lips twitch ruefully.

“Why do you think you’re losing your mind?”

“Well, first of all, Lucifer is leaning against the doorway,” Sam admits. “And he’s telling me that this is all just an illusion and that I’m still in the Pit.”

Castiel chews on his lip, a very human gesture. “I believe it’s safe to say that Lucifer is lying.”

“He’s been following me around and trying to mess with my head.” Sam looked over towards the direction he’d perceived Lucifer to be. “I’m trying not to let it work.”

But it’s hard lies unsaid.

There is silence for a very long moment, and then Castiel asks the question that is truly the most important to him: “How is Dean?”

Sam breathes out sharply through his nose. “Not good.”

Castiel feels a pang of guilt. This is his fault. All of this is his fault. And his road of good intentions has not even ended in Hell – he supposes it in fact began there. “Tell me, please.”

“He’s pretending he’s okay, but it’s all getting to him.” Sam sighs for the third time. “My hallucinations, the Leviathans, you…he just can’t really deal with all of it, but he’s pretending he can.”

Castiel looks down into his own lap as the guilt turns to shame. Everything leads back to him, and his betrayal of this family. His betrayal of Dean, by becoming everything that Dean has always hunted, always killed. He has broken the world, and the Winchesters, and for what?

He looks back at Sam, remembering Sam’s prayer. “You did it for him, didn’t you?”

“A little,” Sam concedes. “Mostly because he didn’t believe me when I said you just needed help.”

There’s something soft in his voice, something sad. Castiel’s heart seems to clench, and he thinks of how “far off the reservation” he must have gone to lose Dean’s faith.

He crossed nearly every line. He lost track of what had truly been important.

He leans forward and cradles his face in his hands. Tears sting at the corners of his eyes, and he cannot even bear to imagine what he has put Dean through.

Everything he has done in the past three years has been for Dean. He has given up everything, lost his mind, lost track of everything, all for one human man – the Righteous Man, yes, but still a man – and yet he’s gotten nothing to gain from it; he’s even lost Dean, it seems.

“Hey,” Sam murmurs, taking him by the shoulders. “He’ll forgive you.”

“Will he?” Castiel asks. It seems utterly unfathomable that Dean could forgive him this.

Sam nods. “You’re his best friend. You fucked up, yeah. But I started the Apocalypse, remember? And he forgave me for that.”

“You’re his brother. He’d give up anything for you.” Castiel knows better than anyone but Sam, perhaps, that Dean is devoted to his kin, to his family. He has never had the choice to be alone, and he has grown up on the edict to protect and defend his brother – he has gone to Hell for him. “When he told me I was as close as family, I rejected that. I betrayed him.”

Sam shrugs. “But you’re not going to do it again. He’ll figure that out.” He sighs. “If anybody’s given up more for him than you have, I’ve never met them. He knows that, and I think that’s what will bring him back around.”

“I wish I could be as certain,” Castiel whispers.

“You know him as well as I do, Cas.” Sam pulls him into a hug. “You’re here, and you’re staying, and that’s all he could’ve hoped for."

Castiel bites his lip. “Thank you.”

When Sam pulls back, he says, “You know, I forgive you, for the brain thing. Mostly. I mean, it sucks, but you were kind of out of your mind at the time.”

Castiel feels a rueful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He lets it out, and Sam smiles back, warm and welcoming. It feels a lot like a homecoming, and he feels somewhat like the prodigal brother returned home. “I am sorry for that. I should have…I should have tried for a different path.”

His voice sticks a little in his throat, but that’s from the way his soul and tattered Grace are swelling with hope. If Sam can forgive him, he decides, then maybe, maybe it is possible for Dean.


	3. Step Three

It takes three days for the moment to break open, for Castiel and Dean to be alone together and for Castiel to be willing to broach the topic.   
  
He has watched Dean these past three days, and Sam is right.  Dean is acting as if nothing has changed, that this is another hunt, another impossible fight against beings bent on killing off all of humanity.  He eats, drinks, drives the Impala – he acts like Dean Winchester, but for one thing.   
  
He has not spoken two words to Castiel.   
  
It takes maybe a day and a half for Castiel to tire of this and decide that, if the topic of his betrayal must be broached, it will have to be by him.    
  
That is how they get to this point, in Bobby’s study, researching the little mythology there is on Leviathans.  Sam is elsewhere, and Bobby is out to get more groceries.  Castiel looks over at Dean, who is on the other side of the room, his eyes steadfastly on the book in front of him.   
  
The book Castiel is reading is proving to be both dull and useless, and the moment, perhaps, is as right as it has ever been for this.   
  
“Dean,” he says, quietly.   
  
Dean looks up at him.  “You find somethin’?”   
  
“No.”  Castiel puts the book aside.  “We need to talk.  About what I’ve done.”   
  
Dean’s face goes cold.  “There’s nothin’ to talk about, Cas.  It’s done with.  We’ve got Leviathans tearing up humanity out there, and that’s a little more important right now.”   
  
Castiel doesn’t let it go at that.  “There’s little to nothing of use in these books.  The Leviathans were locked away from before God made angels – and none of them have ever been killed,” he states, quietly.  “What little there is mischaracterizes them as demons.”   
  
Dean turns back to his book in silence.   
  
Again, Castiel doesn’t let it go.  “By the way, that was the longest sentence you’ve spoken to me since I’ve woken up.”   
  
“Damnit, Cas, stop it.”  Dean turns to him, putting his book down.  He looks angry, but at least he’s looking, and can’t pretend he doesn’t hear what Castiel is saying.  “It’s over.  What’s done is done.  We have to deal with  _this,_  not…whatever.”   
  
“I made you lose everything, Dean.  It’s my fault that all of humanity is in danger again, after all you and Sam have done to save them.  That can’t just be water under the bridge, not when it’s you.”   
  
Dean winces, just a little, but doesn’t bend.  “Why not?”   
  
“Because I know you.  And I know you haven’t forgiven me.”  It hurts to say it, but it is true.  He doesn’t dare to stand or move toward Dean, because that could ruin everything even further.  “And there are the other things I’ve done, Dean.  Things I can never expect you to forgive me for.”   
  
Dean looks away in silence.  He is silhouetted by the window, and Castiel can’t stop looking at him.  His expression is stony, but Castiel can see the pain in the corner of his eye and the edge of his jaw – Castiel is opening recent wounds.  Harming Dean is the last thing Castiel wants to do, but he won’t let those metaphorical wounds fester until something terrible comes from it – it’s happened before, after all.   
  
“What do you want me to say?” Dean finally mutters.   
  
That throws Castiel off.  He has been expecting something else, some Winchester tongue-lashing about family and betrayal and sheer, unadulterated stupidity.  Not this soft, almost plaintive question.   
  
He doesn’t know how to answer.  He longs for forgiveness, but knows he doesn’t deserve it, that it would be a lie if Dean said he  _did_  forgive him.  He does not want Dean to lie to him.  There are too many lies in their shared past, in the past year alone, and Castiel won’t have another one.   
  
Finally, he swallows, because he can only say, “The truth.”   
  
That seems to take Dean aback.  His head lolls against the window, the shadows playing over him gently, and there is another long moment of utter quiet.   
  
Castiel waits.  He knows he will keep waiting, for as long as he must.   
  
The moment stretches onward, just them in Bobby’s study, the only audible sound being that of their breathing.  Dean is still staring a hole in the side of the bookshelf he is facing, and Castiel is watching him and waiting for the inevitable.   
  
And then, it breaks open.  “Cas,” Dean says, voice rough as if he hasn’t used it in a long time.  “I…I’m trying.  I really am.”   
  
Castiel swallows.  It’s better than he’d dared to hope.   
  
“But,” Dean continues, sounding as miserable as he’s ever been, “I never thought that it’d be you, y’know?  What you did…to Sammy, to humanity – how’m I supposed to forgive you for that?”   
  
Castiel honestly doesn’t know.  “You don’t have to,” he manages, softly, hesitantly.   
  
“But I want to.  Damn it, Cas, I want to.”   
  
Castiel squeezes his eyes shut, because once again, he’s on the verge of tears.  He knows that he can’t show that to Dean.  He can’t play that card with Dean – it would be too easy.   
  
“I promised you I’d find a way to redeem myself to you, Dean,” he whispers.  He opens his eyes to find them tearless, and Dean finally looking at him – though with far more sorrow than he should ever have to bear.  “I still intend to do that.  I swear I’ll find a way.  I don’t know how, but I will.”   
  
Dean bites his lip and nods.  “Okay.”   
  
It’s a childish thing, that expression and that word, but Castiel can’t help but understand what it means – that it means more than any forgiveness ever can.   
  
He lets out a soft breath.  “If there’s anything I can do, Dean, anything – just tell me.”  He’s on the verge of breaking down.  “I’m going to need help.”   
  
Dean nods again.  “Just, don’t get yourself killed again.”   
  
Castiel looks at him, memorizing every line of his face.  “I’ll try.”   
  
And he will.


	4. Step Four

“So, basically, we’re just gonna keep trying different shit until we figure out what the fuck kills these bastards?”  Dean asks, limping into the room.  He is on the phone with Bobby.  “Great.”   
  
Sam is unconscious on the couch, and Castiel sits on the very kitchen chair Sam had occupied not two weeks ago when Castiel was the one unconscious.  Castiel thinks of the odd role reversal for a moment before Dean growls something unintelligible and hangs up on Bobby.     
  
“What’s been tried already?” Castiel asks, vacating the chair.   
  
Dean’s eyes are on Sam as he lists off the failures: “Fire, silver, stakes from a hell of a lot of kinds of trees, salt, iron, gold – pretty much everything we’re familiar with.”   
  
“Phoenix ash?”   
  
“We don’t have a way to get at that,” Dean grumbles.  “An’ I don’t think that’ll work, either.”   
  
“There has to be something,” Castiel says quietly, attempting to soothe.  “Every living creature has some kind of weakness – angels are weak to angelic blades, most creatures to the Colt’s bullets, certain pagan gods and goddesses to things sacred to them.  We just have to find what the Leviathans will fall to.”   
  
Dean is still looking at Sam – it is clear that what is really bothering him is Sam’s current condition.   
  
Castiel also worries for Sam, who has been unconscious for sixty hours from their last altercation with a Leviathan who had said that the Winchesters are on the top of their hit list.  No one is surprised by that particular bit of information – Castiel supposes they’ve been lucky thus far that no previous enemy has gone straight for the Winchesters and made their deaths a prime goal.   
  
Everyone was injured in that particular fight – Dean had sprained his ankle and his knee on the same leg, Bobby sported a long, deep gash along his right arm, and Castiel…   
  
Castiel has discovered that his “mojo” is mostly depleted.  He cannot heal anyone, and he cannot teleport more than himself for distances greater than a mile without becoming incredibly dizzy.  He nearly lost a hand checking to see if he could exorcise one of the Leviathans, but to no effect.  Dean has forbidden him from trying again even after he’s back at one hundred percent.   
  
“He look like he’s gonna wake up anytime soon?” Dean asks, finally looking at Castiel.   
  
“I don’t know.  And you should sit down – all of this pacing through the house cannot be good for your leg.”  Castiel gestures to the chair he has vacated.   
  
Dean doesn’t seem inclined to sit, if the way his eyes dart from Castiel to the chair to Sam and back again is any indication.  Castiel freezes, wondering if he’s managed to take a step backward from even this kind of tentative conversation.   
  
Eventually, though, Dean limps into the kitchen and drags in another chair.   
  
Castiel understands – Dean doesn’t have to ask him to stay.  He sits back down, and Dean joins him, his eyes not moving from Sam’s face.  Castiel feels another wash of shame.  While this particular incident had not been directly his fault, Sam would likely have been awake by now if not for the fact that Castiel had meddled with his mind before.     
  
They sit like that in silence for a long while, Dean so vulnerable as he watches Sam, and Castiel watching everything  _but_  Dean for once.  Today, watching Dean feels like intruding on a private moment.   
  
Eventually, Castiel stands up and makes his way into the kitchen.  He isn’t hungry, but he knows that Dean must need something.  So he works his way systematically through Bobby’s pantries as he looks for something he knows that Dean likes.   
  
He finds a saran-wrapped piece of cherry pie in the refrigerator, and fights with the microwave for a minute before getting the pie warmed.   
  
He brings it to Dean, who accepts it gratefully, looking up at Castiel with soft eyes.  He doesn’t say anything, and Castiel sinks back down into his chair as they wait for Bobby’s return – or Sam’s awakening, whichever happens first.   
  
The silence stretches on, but it takes on an ominous tone, like the calm before a storm.  It is not Dean – Dean is calm, and seems only unhappy.  It is something else, and the only thing that keeps Castiel from fidgeting is the fact that he does not want Dean to worry.  So he waits, feeling something on the horizon but unable to do anything about it.     
  
Soon, though, he smells smoke and senses  _them._   
  
_ Hello, angel, _  they whisper,  _Angel-that-was, anyway._   
  
Castiel tenses, and Dean notices.  He must smell the smoke too, though he cannot hear the voices of the Leviathans.  That is Castiel’s burden alone, they’ve discovered.   
  
“Get Sam out of here, please,” Dean murmurs.  “I know it’s gonna – just, please.”   
  
“Not without you,” Castiel says automatically.   
  
Dean shakes his head emphatically.  “I can’t drag the both of you around until we find a safe spot.  If we’re gonna lose Bobby’s house, I want you and Sammy as far away as possible.”   
  
Castiel bites his lip and looks Dean straight in the eye.  He doesn’t want to leave Dean here – there is no way he can get out alone.   
  
But Dean is asking him to protect Sam, and that gesture of trust – he cannot deny the chance.   
  
“Please don’t die,” he whispers, as the smoke starts coming up around them.   
  
Dean nods.  “Hey, betcha I’ve still got that get-out-of-death-free card,” he jokes, but he looks at Castiel with the eyes of a dying man.  “Or frequent dier miles or something.”   
  
“Promise me.”  The words slip out before Castiel can stop them.   
  
“I…yeah.  I promise.”  Dean’s expression strengthens, and Castiel turns to Sam, who is still unconscious.   
  
He lifts him into his arms and concentrates on a point half a mile away, on the outskirts of town, deep in the woods.  Somewhere to keep safe until he can get to a motel.   
  
They make it, and Castiel collapses onto the ground.  He forces himself to remain conscious, though he cannot move at all.  His vessel is protesting the teleportation with every fiber it has, and he groans.   
  
Finally, it is too much, and he blacks out.


	5. Step Five

Castiel wakes to an unfamiliar ceiling, but to what is now a rather familiar tableau:  Sam in a chair at his bedside, and Dean looking away, curled up in a window.   
  
“He’s up,” Sam murmurs quietly, turning to Dean.   
  
Dean’s expression twitches for a moment, and Castiel can swear that it seems like relief.   
  
“Cas, how are you?”  Sam tilts his head as he returns his attention to Castiel.  “You’ve been out for a day and a half.”   
  
“We drove through three states with you in the backseat,” Dean added, a little petulant – but the whining seems affected, as though it’s meant to make Castiel laugh rather than feel uncomfortable.  “Bobby wanted to kill us all before we got through Kentucky.”   
  
Castiel smiles, hesitantly, and reaches out with his Grace.  It seems…stronger, somehow.  As if that day and a half of unconsciousness has helped him heal.   
  
The lights in the room flicker, and both Winchesters wince and look for moved objects out of long habit.   
  
“I’m sorry,” Castiel says.  “I wasn’t expecting to be able to do that so easily.”   
  
Dean stands up.  “How much of your mojo’s back?”   
  
Castiel searches his Grace.  He will still be useless in a fight – especially against these Leviathans – but he can play “angel taxi” if they need it.  It will tax him heavily, but he can do it.   
  
“If we need to run away, I can get us several miles away.  All of us.”   
  
“That’s great,” Sam says, smiling broadly.   
  
Castiel notes, for the first time – which is honestly embarrassing – that Sam has indeed awoken from his near comatose state.  “And how are you?”   
  
Sam shrugs.  “I know Lucifer’s not real, which helps.”   
  
Castiel supposes it does.   
  
Dean moves away from the window and drags a chair to the other side of Castiel’s bed, sitting on it backwards and examining Castiel with his eyes.  When he seems to be satisfied with Castiel’s current state of health, he says, “And I think we need to teach you how to fight.”   
  
“Yeah,” Sam agrees, tilting his head.  “It’ll be better for all of us that way.”   
  
“Indeed,” Castiel says softly.  “I suppose this means a firearm?”   
  
Dean actually laughs, and Castiel has not heard a sweeter sound in a very, very long time.  “Yeah.”   
  
It is at this point that the motel room door opens and Bobby Singer enters, bearing a load of groceries.  He notices that Castiel is conscious, and nods in acknowledgement as he puts the bags down on the rickety little motel-room table.   
  
“How are ya?” he asks.   
  
“Better,” Castiel replies.  “I can move us all now, and farther than a mile.”   
  
Bobby smiles for a moment, but then his expression hardens.  “We’re gonna have to lay off on the credit card fraud.  I’m pretty sure the Leviathans are watchin’ our aliases.”   
  
Dean sighs.   “Damn.  That was fast.”   
  
“These bastards are smart,” Bobby agrees.  “So, we teaching you to shoot?” he directs at Castiel.   
  
Castiel nods.  “Yes.  Dean mentioned it.”   
  
Bobby grunts his approval and nods, digging through the bags of groceries and setting them out on the table.  It appears to mostly be canned or microwaveable food.  There is a large cooler underneath the table, and soon the table itself is covered with microwaveable ramen, canned beans, and various other goods that humans turn to when survival becomes more important than comfort.   
  
It looks meager, but Castiel concludes that Bobby has done the best he can.   
  
He looks over at Dean and Sam, who both look a little disappointed.  Dean in particular seems displeased, and Castiel makes a mental note of that.   
  
“We’re gonna have to hustle a lotta pool,” Bobby mutters, and turns to Castiel.  “You know anything about pool?”   
  
He doesn’t, and says as much.   
  
“Another thing for you to teach our angel friend here, Dean,” Bobby says, and Dean blanches just a bit.  Castiel bites back a sigh of disappointment.   
  
“Teaching him to fight might be more productive at first,” Sam interjects.  “Maybe me and Bobby should go figure out money, while you give Cas a crash course in gunpowder and lead.”   
  
Dean seems to agree to that well enough.   
  
“But first we should have somethin’ to eat,” Bobby decides, and grabs four of the little cups of ramen.  He tosses them into the tiny microwave and mashes buttons.   
  
Nothing explodes, which strikes Castiel as being exceedingly lucky, and, after about fifteen seconds the ramen cups are ready.  Bobby sets them on the few inches of the table that aren’t covered by the other groceries, and gestures for everyone to sit down.   
  
Castiel is not hungry.  He debates offering his cup to the three hunters, and decides to do so.   
  
“No, Cas,” Dean says, a little too emphatically.  “We don’t need you passing out because you haven’t eaten anything in over four days.”   
  
Castiel had not realized Dean had noticed that he had not eaten in the days following the first fight with the Leviathans.  He is embarrassed, and feels three sets of eyes boring holes into his skull.  He picks up the cup and the spoon and begins to eat.  It is salty and unpleasant.   
  
They eat quickly and in silence.     
  
After a few minutes they are all finished.  Bobby gets up and puts all of the garbage in the can.  The Winchesters seem to take this as their cue to start packing things up, re-bagging everything.  Castiel follows their lead and reaches for the cooler, tugging it out from under the table.   
  
They takes several trips to the car and back, making absolutely certain they’ve left nothing behind them.   
  
Finally, they’ve finished and are ready to go.  Sam slides into the shotgun seat habitually, and Bobby gets into the seat behind him.     
  
Dean turns to Castiel and gestures to the car gently, searching him again with his eyes.  It’s a quiet gesture, but it is at once thanks and an expectation – “ _I said I wouldn’t die, and I’m glad you didn’t either”_  – that warms Castiel deeply.   
  
Castiel nods in reply, and slides in, and they go.


	6. Step Six

It is several hours until Sam and Bobby kick them out of the Impala, a few miles away from the next town on the long and winding road, citing the fact that this particular mountainous field and forest are as good as any, and far enough away from the last motel that the Leviathans are not an immediate threat to them.   
  
Dean pulls several different firearms out of the trunk of the Impala, each of a different size, and the assorted ammunitions, before shutting the trunk and waving Sam and Bobby off.   
  
As the engine growls and the car pulls away, Dean turns to Castiel and hands him a pistol.  It’s much more modern than the Colt ever was, of course, and Castiel tests its weight in his palm – it’s of a substantial but not obstructive weight.   
  
“First thing,” Dean says.  “Check if it’s loaded.”   
  
Dean gently pulls the gun from Castiel’s hand and shows him how.  He has Castiel repeat the action several times until he can do it fairly quickly.   
  
“Good.”  Dean pulls out his own pistol, checks it, and turns toward a tree tens of yards off.  “Now, I’m gonna hit that tree.  Watch how I’m standing, and how I’m holding the gun, all right?”   
  
He hits the very center of the trunk, of course.   
  
“You get it?”   
  
“I believe so,” Castiel murmurs.  He steps aside so that Dean is no longer in the way of his shot, raises the gun, and attempts to mimic Dean’s position as he saw it.  He doesn’t hit the tree at all, and the recoil of the weapon surprises him.   
  
Dean shakes his head gently.  “You’re not aiming right, first of all.”   
  
Castiel sighs, but watches as Dean shows him how to aim.  It is deceptively simple – Dean’s arm is held much more firmly than it had looked to be, for one – but Dean makes the act graceful, even.   
  
It is not so simple when Castiel tries again.  This time, though, the bullet glances off the side of the tree, if much higher than Castiel intends.  This is closer than before, but still not nearly close enough.  He feels himself tensing with frustration, particularly in the hand holding the gun.   
  
“Hey,” Dean says, seeming almost soothing.  “You’re not gonna get it the first time.  Took me a couple of times to get it right, back when Dad showed me how.”   
  
“You were in the third grade, Dean.”   
  
“You know that?”  Dean had stopped dead, and was looking at Castiel with confused but unguarded interest.  “You never told me you knew stuff like that.”   
  
“I cobbled your body back together after dragging you out of Hell, Dean, and that included every synapse of your brain,” Castiel explains, feeling the beginning of a smile pulling at his face.  “I know things about you that you’ve never told Sam, or anyone else for that matter.”   
  
Dean raises an eyebrow.  “That’d be creepy, but hey, angel.”   
  
This gentle, offhand ribbing is what Castiel remembers of the days before the Apocalypse, and it makes him smile – this is so much more like the Dean he knows.   
  
The Dean he loves.   
  
He feels a wash of comfort from that.  If Dean is well and truly acting this way towards him, well, it’s getting better.  That’s more than Castiel could have ever hoped for.  His smile widens.  “Indeed, angel.”   
  
Next, after they decide that the pistol is a lost cause for now, they move on to the sawed-off shotgun.  It is marginally easier – the weight of the weapon prevents some of the recoil that had been much of Castiel’s problem with the pistol.  But he only manages to graze the tree, despite his shots being much more consistent.   
  
“You might be meant for a rifle,” Dean muses, taking the shotgun from Castiel and storing it.  “Though the shotgun oughtta be alright for now – when do you think you’ll get your mojo back?”   
  
Castiel is not sure.  He is healing, and quickly, but he doesn’t know how long it will be before he can be more than the emergency angel-taxi.  He says as much to Dean: “I don’t know.  My Grace is still recovering from what the Leviathans did to subdue me.”   
  
Dean tenses, just a little bit.  “What did they…?”   
  
“I…it’s difficult to explain.  They…” he shudders as he allows himself to remember them tearing holes in his Grace, ripping him to pieces at his very core.  “They carved my Grace like a turkey, I suppose.”   
  
Dean swallows.  “Dude, you are shit with metaphors.”   
  
“I believe that was a simile,” Castiel says, attempting to lighten the mood.   
  
“You’re hanging out with Sam too much,” Dean replies, but there’s something appreciative in his eyes – glad to have the distraction – that warms Castiel.   
  
“Do you think Bobby and Sam have picked a motel yet?” he asks.  “We’ve been driving for a very long time.”  Not that he minds – patience is a virtue that he knows all too well when it comes to Winchesters.  They wait for their moment, and even longer sometimes, as though it’s the easiest thing in the world.   
  
“Nah, they’re probably bitching over room sizes and shit.”  Dean shakes his head and laughs.  “If we didn’t have four people, we’d probably just be sleeping in my baby.”   
  
Castiel feels the laugh deep in his vessel’s bones – a curiously human thing, like the way his heart is thumping at the sound – and can’t help but smile.  He’s not sure what to say next, because hearing Dean laugh always does that to him – and this is the second time he’s heard it over the course of only a day.   
  
Dean doesn’t seem to mind that they’ve run out of things to talk about, because he’s still smiling a lopsided little smile.    
  
They might just be all right, Castiel thinks as Dean waves him over and they start walking down the road toward town, his eyes brighter green than they’ve been in a while.   
  
And if they aren’t, they will be.


	7. Step Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter with the Impala sex.

Through the haze of whiskey and wine, Castiel vaguely recognizes that this is an absolutely terrible, incredibly dangerous idea.   
  
But he doesn’t care.   
  
He and Dean are in a dive in Iowa, and the neon lights are twinkling over Dean’s face.  Castiel can tell that they’re about equally drunk, though Castiel has had far more to drink, and he leans over, gently reaching out and brushing against one of the spots of red light on Dean’s arm.   
  
There’s a moment of silence that hangs in the air between them.   
  
Then, as Castiel draws his hand back, Dean catches it, and a shock runs through Castiel.  His throat stops up and his heart thuds wild for a moment, because Dean has not come within three feet of him, much less  _touched_  him, since before the Leviathans used him.  He’d nearly forgotten what it feels like, how the touch of Dean’s hand makes him feel  _right,_  more than anything else has in millennia.   
  
Dean looks at him with intense, hazy eyes.  Castiel stutters over a breath and moves his barstool a hair closer to Dean’s.  He knocks back another shot.  It burns going down, but it’s good.   
  
When Dean lurches toward him and whispers in his ear, “Car.  Now,” Castiel can’t help but follow, even when Dean lets go of his hand.  After all, Castiel has never been able to say no to this Winchester – not even in the very beginning.   
  
They stumble across the parking lot to the Impala, and Dean shoves Castiel against the passenger side door.   
  
This is how their first kiss goes, up against the side of the Impala.  Out of the precious few kisses Castiel has had, this is of course the best.  Only Dean has ever made him want like this, made him yearn and feel and disobey.  He twines himself around Dean as Dean kisses him with a searing, single-minded intensity.   
  
The kiss screams of possessiveness, of Dean claiming him – not that Castiel has ever needed him to, to know that he is very much  _his_  – and Castiel melts into it, because part of him knows this will likely never happen again, that this could very well be his only chance to have this, to have Dean in his arms and kissing him like he’s the center of the universe.   
  
When Dean finally pulls back, it’s only a fraction of an inch, and they pant into each others’ mouths.  They’re pressed together from shoulder to groin, and now Castiel can feel Dean’s arousal, and he notices, slightly dazed, his own.  Dean has made him  _physically aroused_  – though, if anyone could do it, it would be Dean.   
  
Dean stays flush against him, but fumbles for his keys.  By some miracle he manages to get the car door open.   
  
He takes Castiel by the lapels of his trench coat and kisses him again, softer, slower, as he guides him down into the backseat.  As soon as he feels the leather seat against his back, Castiel moans softly.   
  
“God, Cas,” Dean says, and there is something profoundly broken in his voice.   
  
Castiel quiets him by leaning up to kiss him again, pushing his tongue into Dean’s mouth.  Dean accepts the intrusion gamely, wrapping Castiel tighter in his arms and using his considerable prowess to drive Castiel out of his mind.   
  
This time, when Dean pulls away, he sits up to shrug off his jacket, and his eyes are practically black in the dark of the night.  Castiel takes the hint and mostly divests himself of his coat, leaving it to lie open underneath him.  Dean watches, and then he’s kissing Castiel again, pulling on his already-loosened tie.  It comes off with little trouble, and it is followed by Dean’s t-shirt.   
  
Dean is breathtaking by moonlight, heartachingly so, and Castiel takes note of a smattering of new scars.  He remembers every scar Dean used to have, before Castiel rebuilt his body cell by cell, and he reaches out to map the new ones with his hands, drawn to them the way he has always been drawn to every part of Dean.  His hand drifts to the scar  _he_  left, his handprint seared into Dean’s shoulder, and he fits his hand to it.  He is taken off guard by the flash of rightness, of  _completeness_  that lightnings through him.  It appears to affect Dean as well, who groans and attacks the buttons on Castiel’s shirt, fumbling with them.  After a few moments of that, Dean decides to just rip it open, a decision Castiel can’t find it in himself to protest.   
  
Now they are both shirtless in the back of the Impala, and Castiel reaches out and pulls Dean as close as he can.  The movement slides their groins together, and Castiel gasps at the unfamiliar sensation, but instinctively rocks back against Dean, who groans and takes Castiel’s mouth in another mind-blowing kiss.   
  
Castiel feels his Grace reaching for Dean, wanting him as much as his body does, and he lets it touch him, gently, as they move against each other.   
  
“Cas,” Dean pants, “God, what you do to me.”   
  
There’s desperation in his voice, and Castiel would give anything to ease it.  He bucks a little harder, even though he doesn’t have any idea what he’s supposed to do.   
  
Dean seems to appreciate his efforts and reciprocates in kind.  They rock against each other, and, between the alcohol and the lust, Castiel finds himself getting higher and higher.  He wants this so badly, has  _wanted_  for so long.  It’s better that he could’ve possibly imagined, if he dared to, and it keeps getting better with every kiss, every touch.   
  
And then, it crests.  Castiel feels himself lose completely what little control remains to him, and realizes abruptly that this is an orgasm.   
  
He convulses, his Grace pulsing, and lets out a sharp, hoarse cry.   
  
Dean rolls his hips one final time, and follows him over the edge, shaking and groaning out “Cas, Cas,” over and over as they ride out the aftershocks together.   
  
When it’s over, when Dean falls asleep on Castiel’s chest, and Castiel himself is close to sleep, he realizes that he has just lost his virginity to Dean Winchester in the back of the Impala.   
  
It is to sweet dreams that Castiel gives himself up.


	8. Step Eight

Castiel wakes up underneath Dean in the back seat of the Impala, warm, and for a moment, he basks in their proximity.   
  
Then, he takes notice of the throbbing headache he has, and the uncomfortable stickiness in the front of his pants.  His eyes widen as it really hits him:  He got drunk and had some kind of sexual contact with Dean, and this is what humans refer to as “the morning after.”   
  
Suddenly, the closeness seems claustrophobic.   
  
He has no idea how he’s going to extricate himself from this situation, or if it’s even possible without waking Dean.  Getting out of here without waking Dean suddenly seems like an imperative – he has no idea how Dean will react to waking up half-undressed on top of Castiel, and, given how tentative their relationship has become, Castiel does not want to deal with risking its loss until he’s at least dressed and his head doesn’t hurt.   
  
Eventually, he begins to slide off the seat onto the floor, slowly enough that Dean doesn’t stir.  He waits for a moment, his trench coat bunched uncomfortably beneath him, to be sure that Dean’s still sleeping, before he works open the door latch.   
  
He gets out of the car and pulls on his coat, the sun stinging his eyes.  He somehow manages not to wake Dean when he closes the car door.   
  
Stopping, he considers trying to drive the Impala back to the motel, but he doesn’t know how.  So he leaves Dean in the locked car and begins his trudge back.  Humans refer to this as the “Walk of Shame,” and Castiel thinks he understands as he pulls his coat tighter around himself.  People still possessed of dignity and courage did not crawl out of cars the morning after sex and walk too fast back to their current places of residence.   
  
Unfortunately, that is what Castiel is doing.   
  
After what feels like hours – though Castiel knows perfectly well that it has only been thirty minutes – he reaches the hotel.  Bobby sits guard outside the doors to their rooms, and when he sees Castiel’s rumpled state he stands up and strides over to him.   
  
“Where’s Dean?” he asks, catching Castiel by the shoulder.   
  
“Sleeping in the Impala in the bar parking lot,” Castiel admits.   
  
Bobby’s expression settles into a scowl.  “An’ ya left him there alone  _why,_  exactly?”   
  
This is the part where Castiel remembers why he was at the bar in the first place.  No one goes anywhere alone, they’d decided after the Leviathan attack on Bobby’s house.   
  
Fear claws through him, mixing liberally with shame.  He has put Dean in immediate danger, and for what?  Selfish embarrassment and fear.  He curses under his breath in Enochian and admits to his folly.  “We got drunk,” he begins, looking away.   
  
Bobby understands, it appears, and lets out a gusty breath.  “And ya finally…?”   
  
Castiel nods wordlessly.   
  
Bobby whistles.  “Can’t say I’m surprised.”  Then he sobers.  “Now go get your angel ass back to that bar before we have to rescue him.”   
  
As it turns out, Castiel doesn’t have to, because at that moment the Impala tears into the parking lot.   
  
Castiel feels as though his stomach has dropped out of his body and his heart is making its way up into his throat.  He takes a step toward his door, a futile attempt to once again escape his foolishness.   
  
Dean gets out of the Impala, slamming the door.  Castiel notices that his tie is clutched tightly in Dean’s fist.   
  
“What the hell?” Dean asks, taking Castiel by the shoulder and shoving him against the nearest door.  Castiel can smell the remains of last night’s drink on Dean’s breath, and it would take only a little movement to kiss him – though kissing would be a very bad idea.  “You couldn’t’ve, I don’t know, left a note or some shit so I knew that you hadn’t been killed or kidnapped by the psycho man-eating bastards who want us all dead?”   
  
Castiel finds himself growling.  “What was I supposed to write?  ‘Thanks for the ill-advised sex, I’m not dead, please don’t hate me?’”   
  
Dean steps back, and Castiel almost curses himself again but for the soft unfortunate look in Dean’s green eyes, hurt and hesitant.  It causes Castiel to go stock-still as the wind blows his coat open, exposing the remains of his button-down and the stain that Castiel notices too late on the front of his slacks.   
  
“Okay,” comes Sam’s uncertain voice from the other doorway.  It does nothing for Castiel’s persistent headache.  “I guess me and Bobby’ll go find some breakfast while you two…clean up?”   
  
The Impala is still running, a gentle purr that soon recedes into the distance, and Dean is still staring at Castiel.   
  
“So, uh, not so much the holy tax accountant, then,” Dean finally says.   
  
Castiel shakes his head in response to the feeble joke.  He doesn’t feel the least bit  _holy_ , hasn’t in a very long time, and he supposes that is Dean’s doing – holiness is nothing to Dean, and, when Castiel is with him, he makes no pretenses at it.   
  
Dean seems uncertain as to where to go from here, a feeling that Castiel shares.  But Castiel also feels incredibly exposed like this, half-undressed in broad daylight, vulnerable under Dean’s gaze.   
  
After a long moment that makes Castiel increasingly afraid, Castiel says, haltingly, “I should bathe.”   
  
“Y-yeah,” Dean agrees, nodding, and the moment is lost as he draws back even further and Castiel slips into his room.   
  
He leans against the door and lets out a long, shuddering breath.  He doesn’t understand what just transpired, if he’s just ruined everything when he’s come so close to winning back Dean’s friendship and trust – which should have been enough, which has always  _been_  enough for him, to have Dean’s friendship and trust.  He doesn’t need to have Dean’s love.  He doesn’t.   
  
He wanders into the bathroom, divests himself of his clothing, and loses himself in the hot spray of the shower burning against his skin.


	9. Step Nine

Castiel leaves his bathroom to find the motel room decidedly  _not empty_.  He yelps undignifiedly and clutches his towel tightly about his hips.   
  
“Catch,” Dean says, eyes averted, as he tosses Castiel a t-shirt and a pair of jeans.  Castiel returns to the bathroom and slips into the clothes.  They’re Dean’s and Castiel breathes in the scent softly.  It is an emergency, yes, but he is still dressed in Dean’s clothes, and he can’t help himself.   
  
He leaves the bathroom and surveys the motel room.  Besides Dean, Sam and Bobby are also present.   
  
And, much to Castiel’s dismay…   
  
“Crowley!”  The lights flicker, and Castiel clamps down on his anger as he turns toward Dean, “Why is he here?”   
  
“Business, angel,” Crowley says, apparently unable to let attention be away from him for more than five seconds.  He surveys Castiel with a purposefully lascivious eye.  “Though it seems  _you’re_  here for pleasure.”   
  
Castiel tenses as the room falls silent and Crowley smirks.   
  
“And what  _business_  might this be?” Castiel asks, addressing the whole of the room.  “Though I can assure you that I’m not interested.”   
  
“I killed a Leviathan yesterday,” Crowley says primly.   
  
“Impossible,” Castiel spits.  Crowley deals in lies the way humans change their underwear – there’s no reason to believe him now.   
  
Crowley shakes his head slowly.  “Really, Castiel, you should know by now that nothing is impossible.  I’m the King of Hell, you’re an angel of the Lord, Sam over there is an ex-demon-blood-junkie, and let’s not even get  _started_  on the hot mess that is your boyfriend.  Killing a Leviathan?  Completely within the realm of possibility, darling.”   
  
“The last time I did  _business_  with you, you betrayed my confidence and look where that’s gotten us.”   
  
“Angel, that Purgatory thing is all on you,” Crowley drawls.  “Not my fault you didn’t think this through.  Besides, I’m the one who showed these idiots how to bind Death, and that’s probably the only reason you’re still with us.”   
  
“At what cost?” Castiel asks tersely.  There is no way Crowley would simply give up such information for free.   
  
“Actually, I just wanted you dead.”   
  
Somehow, that is actually comforting.  But, nonetheless, the idea of the Winchesters dealing with Crowley – after how badly things had gone last time – leaves a bad taste in his mouth.   
  
He meets Dean’s eyes, questioning.     
  
He cannot read the answer in Dean’s eyes, and the silence lengthens.   
  
“Anyway,” Crowley interrupts.  “Are we conspiring, or should I just stand here and look pretty while the lovebirds have their silent spat?”   
  
“Wait here a minute,” Dean says, directing the comment to Sam, Bobby, and Crowley.  He crosses the room and takes Castiel by the elbow, leading him outside.  Castiel isn’t sure where this is going, but he’s still unhappy with demon-deals past and future.   
  
“I didn’t want to work with Crowley anymore than you do now,” Dean says, quietly.  “Bobby and Sam had to convince me.”   
  
“Do you think I wanted to work with Crowley the first time?”  Castiel feels his anger building.  “And we all know how well that turned out.  All the good intentions in Creation couldn’t save us from this madness – why should we trust Crowley’s help this time?”   
  
“I’ve already been down the road to Hell, Cas, so don’t give me that ‘good intentions’ crap,” Dean says, and he sounds tired.  “You had a choice.  We don’t.”   
  
Castiel recoils – he should have seen this coming.  Dean’s expression clearly says  _You could have chosen me._   
  
“I couldn’t do that to you, Dean.  You were happy.”   
  
Dean looks away.  Castiel watches him in silence, watches him blame himself.  Self-sacrificial Dean, who doesn’t think he deserves happiness, who thinks he’s living on borrowed time – all Castiel had wanted was to give him his happiness and let him keep it.   
  
“I’m the one who failed, Dean,” he whispers.  “I’m the one to blame for this.  If  _I_  had been stronger, or found some other way – just because I refused to ask for your help, it does  _not_  mean you’re to blame for this.  This, all of it, is  _not your fault._ ”  He moves within Dean’s space – something he has not dared to do while sober since the Leviathans – hoping against hope that it will help.   
  
Dean finally looks back at him, and his green eyes are raw and full of that self-loathing that surfaces from time to time.  As always, it makes Castiel want to hold him close, to wrap him up in Grace until he understands just how worthy he is, how every inch and part of him is valuable and loved.   
  
“Why?”  Dean asks, and Castiel can’t help but feel a new anger bubbling up.   
  
“Why do you think we fumbled around that backseat last night?” he rebuts.  “Why do you think I’ve died for you?  Why I rebelled and would have Fallen?”   
  
If anything, this oblique confession only seems to frighten Dean more – as though he cannot trust  _himself_  in this case, as though he feels truly unworthy of everything that Castiel feels for him, every act Castiel has done because he loves him.  He has given everything for this man – committed more than half the Seven Sins, committed fratricide, and learned what it means to live and love and hurt and doubt and die and forgive, all for Dean Winchester.   
  
And the only regrets he has are the times he’s hurt Dean, unwittingly or not.   
  
Maybe it’s dangerous, this unconditional love.  It’s a weakness, but Castiel knows that without Dean, he’s even weaker.  It was without that constant reminder of humanity that he has fallen apart, and the world with him.   
  
“Dean,” he whispers.  “I wish you knew that you are so much more than you believe you are.”  He pauses, stepping back.  “If you ask me to deal with Crowley, I will.”   
  
“I don’t want you to have to,” Dean says, turning away a little.  Then he smiles ruefully.  “Kind of a far cry from ‘broken shell of a man,’ huh?”   
  
Castiel remembers – one of his regrets.  “We all were breaking then.”   
  
Dean nods.  “Yeah.”   
  
There’s a soft moment of silence, and then Dean gestures to the door.  “You ready for this?”   
  
“Yes,” Castiel murmurs, and gives as soft and reassuring a smile as he can.   
  
Then, together, they return to the motel room.


	10. Step Ten

Castiel hates this.  It’s rare, but it always makes him feel helpless.   
  
They’ve won the battle – they’ve destroyed the Leviathans at great cost to themselves.  Castiel is drained, and will remain so for a very long time.  His last angelic act had been a desperate bid at keeping Dean from dying.  Sam has a badly broken arm.  Bobby managed to come away fairly unscathed, if only because he’d been sniping Leviathans from a distance.   
  
Crowley, being Crowley, has gone back to Hell in order to go set right his affairs before things descend into anarchy in his absence.  Castiel will admit he is not sorry to see him go.   
  
But Dean, Dean is unconscious – nearly comatose.     
  
Castiel and Sam sit at his bedside, and Bobby would be leaning on the counter, but has been outside for a minute or so.  He leaves the motel room every now and then to take a call; the whole world’s population of Hunters appears to be aware that the menace of the Leviathans has been ended, and who better than to provide them with information than Bobby Singer, who is the information hub when it comes to apocalypses – after all, he even is said to know the notorious Winchesters.   
  
Dean has not moved – except the rise and fall of his chest that lets them know he’s still breathing – for nearly twenty-four hours.  Every moment has been excruciating for all involved (with Dean as a possible exception, given that he is the one currently unconscious), and, more than once Castiel has looked over at Sam and seen him on the edge of tears.   
  
Castiel has no tears to cry – he is beyond exhausted, beyond the limits of his Grace and his vessel both.  He is incapable of tears, and stares dully at Dean, waiting.   
  
He is not sure what he is waiting for.  He wonders if the clumsy, desperate stretching of his Grace in the eleventh hour has done anything  _for_  Dean.  Everyone must die, he knows, and he wonders if maybe he has been mistaken – if it would have been kinder to let him go.   
  
His whole being aches and grieves and is on the edge of shattering.   
  
With considerable effort, he reaches out to find the handprint with his fingertips, remembering the only other times he’s touched it in startling clarity.   
  
He cannot speak as the images and impressions flood through him.  The first moment in Hell, when the Righteous Man turned to him with blood on his scalpel – Castiel remembers, even if he’s made sure that Dean never will – and the first touch; and then, much more recently, the first time Castiel gave in to his feelings of lust as well as love – his hand on bare skin rather than bare soul that time, but just as potent, just as true.   
  
He has known since the first touch that he is Dean’s.  He was not the only angel to storm Hell that day, but he is the angel who pulled Dean out of Hell and proceeded to love him.   
  
“I’m okay with it,” Sam says, his hoarse voice making Castiel jump.  He turns his head to look, and Sam continues.  “If you and him are, you know.”   
  
“I don’t know what we are,” Castiel replies.  “I’ve never had the chance to ask.”   
  
Sam nods.  “But I think it’s not just a one-night thing.  Dean cares too much about you for it to be like that.”  He snorts a little.  “And you’ve been obvious from day one.  He’s just oblivious.”   
  
Castiel gives him a watery smile.  “Have I?”   
  
“Yeah.  The whole falling from the Host and protecting him from archangels at the cost of your life kind of made it obvious.”  Sam nudges his shoulder.  “And then it just sort of spiraled out from there.”   
  
There’s a shift under Castiel’s hand, and Castiel’s attention snaps back to Dean.   
  
Dean is stirring, and Castiel’s heart starts pounding, and he hardly dares to hope that Dean might be okay, that Castiel hasn’t ruined everything for the final time.   
  
Dean groans and his hand come up to catch Castiel’s.   
  
“Dean,” Castiel whispers, in awe.   
  
“Cas,” comes the scratchy answer, accompanied by a reassuring squeeze.  “Are we dead?”   
  
“No, we’re not,” Sam answers for him, and Castiel is thankful – he’s sure he cannot form a sentence, or even words other than Dean’s name right now.   
  
Dean nods, eyes still shut.  “Hey Sammy.”   
  
“Cas saved you,” Sam murmurs, his eyes flicking toward Castiel with a soft  _go on_  that Castiel doesn’t understand.   
  
“Course he did.  ‘S always Cas.  Or you.  B’mostly Cas.”  There’s a long moment of quiet where Dean gets back his breath.  His hand tightens on Castiel’s again, and Castiel is completely frozen – this soft fondness is more than he could have ever hoped for, if he’d ever dared to hope at all.  “Cas.”   
  
“Yes?” he manages, his voice too small.   
  
“Sammy ever tell you the story of Sleeping Beauty?”   
  
Sam snorts undignifiedly, breaking into peals of laughter.  It seems just a little bit hysterical -- but then, this kind of non-sequitir is so absolutely Dean that it brings it home that Dean's going to be okay.   
  
And yes, Castiel knows the story of Sleeping Beauty, how she was awakened by the kiss of her true love – at least, in the less gory version – after sleeping for a century.  It takes him a moment to remember, and another to realize what Dean just might be getting at.  When he does, he can’t quite believe it.  If he understands what Dean is trying to tell him…Well, there’s only one way to find out.   
  
“I’m aware of the story.”   
  
“Well,” Dean mumbles, “I ain’t no princess, but…”   
  
Castiel thinks his vessel’s heart might well burst.   
  
As he leans down to grant the request Dean hasn’t quite made, he realizes that this is better than the kisses in the back of the Impala, because this – this is a true confession.  And this is what it means:   
  
Castiel is finally _home._


End file.
